


Come On (You Stranger, You Legend, You Martyr)

by alwaysamy



Series: End!verse [4]
Category: Supernatural
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-04-01
Updated: 2012-04-01
Packaged: 2017-11-02 20:36:07
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,536
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/373078
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/alwaysamy/pseuds/alwaysamy
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Dean isn't the man Cas pulled from hell anymore, but Cas is far from an angel of the lord.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Come On (You Stranger, You Legend, You Martyr)

**Author's Note:**

> Title from "Shine on You Crazy Diamond". 
> 
> Last story (I think) in the End!verse. Set sometime before 5.04.

The moon is full again. Cas thinks it's probably the only bright, pure thing in the world tonight.    
  
In another time, another place, he would have believed the same thing of Macy's pregnancy. Now, with the world dead or dying or slowly smoldering to ash, it's an abomination. Not that he'd tell Macy that. It's not his job anymore to nourish anyone's faith. Hope may not be quite the same thing, but he can't find reason for either anymore.   
  
At least he's not the child's father. He'd thank God for that, but now that he knows God has absolutely nothing to do with anything that goes on, he doesn't bother.   
  
He rolls over, away from the dull silver light bleeding around the sheet he hung as a curtain. He's out of weed, out of everything but a little vodka he has stashed under his bed, but alcohol barely makes a dent anymore. He's restless, achy, still wired from the hike out for supplies earlier today, and he's never going to sleep.   
  
Which means he's got only one option.   
  
He rolls out of bed and scuffs his feet into the loose sandals on the floor beside it. There are a few places to look for what he wants, especially at this hour, but he'll take the most obvious first.   
  
A light is burning in Dean's cabin, greasy yellow in the dark. Cas doesn't knock, just pushes open the screen and lets it slam shut behind him. Dean looks up from the table where he's sharpening a knife, eyes narrowed. "Oh. Cas."   
  
"Thrilled to see you, too, O fearless leader," Cas drawls, and pokes at the new provisions stashed on the counter under the window. There's nothing special but two cans of apple pie filling, and no way is Dean sharing those.   
  
Another time, another place, the pie would have been fresh baked or at least warmed in a microwave, and Dean would have fed it to him, if he wasn't licking the sticky sweetness out of Cas's mouth instead.   
  
"Problem?" Dean's voice is rough, lower than ever, and it scrapes at Cas like cement on bare knees. Dean doesn't look up from the whetstone this time.   
  
"Bored." Cas traces the perimeter of the room, letting his fingers trail behind him, finding the rusty iron ladder, the splintered wall, the stiff, blood-stained canvas of Dean's jacket. He wants something soft, wants to smother himself in clouds, new fur, melted chocolate, anything without an edge.   
  
That's what drugs are for, though. And women, round and smooth and slippery. He doesn't have either tonight, but he'll take what he can get, even if it comes with teeth and claws.   
  
"Hundred things you could be doing around here," Dean says, and puts down the knife, turns in his chair.    
  
"And you're one of them." Cas props a hip against the table, cocks his head to one side. Once in a while, the head tilt and the intense stare can grease the way, open the door to Dean's memories when he's feeling nostalgic.   
  
He doesn't look like he's feeling that way tonight. His eyes are flinty, as hard as the set of his shoulders. One eyebrow lifts in response, but it's not flirtatious, it's not teasing, it's nearly contemptuous.   
  
Another time, another place, Dean was everything that made humanity fascinating to Cas. Noble even, these nearly powerless creatures fighting so fiercely for the people they loved, the things they wanted, sometimes just to survive. Now Dean is nothing more than that last instinct, stripped down to hollow bone, just as ugly, just as sharp when broken.   
  
Loving him still isn't what hurts. It seems to Castiel that love is always equal parts pain and pleasure, contentment and dissatisfaction. No, what hurts, what's most important somehow, is that he doesn't like Dean anymore.   
  
But Dean doesn't like him anymore either, so at least they're playing this particular game by the same rules.   
  
"Harem have the night off?" Dean says, and Cas hates the smirk in his tone, hates that it's just as hollow as the rest of him. It's not really funny to Dean, the way it once would have been. He couldn't care less if Cas wound up fucked to death by any of the women he's managed to charm into his bed the past few years. Dean wouldn't care if Cas's heart gave out right here and now. It would only mean another body to bury.   
  
"Chuck got a portable DVD player charged. I believe they're watching Harold and Kumar ... go somewhere."   
  
Dean snorts and turns back to his knife, whisking the blade expertly along the surface of the whetstone. "Surprised you're not over there supplying the high."   
  
"I'm out."   
  
This time Dean's laugh is a bark, rough and ugly. "Ah. So you're scavenging for some good old endorphins, huh? What's the matter with your right hand?"   
  
Anger boils up hot in Cas's throat. Dean never makes this easy, not once. "Christ, Dean. Do you want to fuck me or not?"   
  
Dean's only reaction to his frustration is another quick flick of his gaze, steady, appraising. "All right. Don't get your panties in a knot."   
  
"Maybe you'd be more enthusiastic if I was actually wearing panties." He gets something close to a genuine chuckle for that, and grins slow and easy as he starts to strip off his clothes. He's going to get laid, but he's probably not going to get much foreplay, so he doesn't see the sense in waiting.   
  
Dean shuts the door and locks it, and turns around to watch as Cas tosses his wrinkled jeans and T-shirt on the table. Dean strips off his button-down and hangs it on the back of the chair, pulls his own torn gray tee over his head in one smooth move. He unbuckles his belt and opens his jeans then catches sight of Castiel sprawled naked against the ladder. The eyebrow lifts again. "You going to leave some non-perishables by the bed when you go? Want to call me Killer? Maybe Francis?"   
  
As if there's something more going on here than a simple transaction. Cas sighs. "My apologies. Should I go pick some flowers? Find a bottle of wine?"   
  
Dean strides across the room, his open belt buckle clanking, his thigh holster still strapped in place . "You got a smart mouth these days, you know that?"   
  
"I'm aware, yes." He pushes off the ladder and turns to climb it, the metal cool and gritty under his bare feet. He's also aware he's giving Dean a perfect view of his bare ass, but that's the point. He flinches when Dean's cold fingers dig into his hips, holding him still.   
  
"You want to get fucked, Cas?" His breath is hot and damp on the small of Cas's back, and his calloused thumbs drag across the meat of his ass, pulling him apart. "That what you want tonight?"   
  
"I ... uh ... told you that already," Cas manages as Dean's tongue slides between his cheeks, firm and wet, one long, purposeful stripe from just behind his balls up to his hole. It's so familiar, even here, perched halfway up this ridiculous ladder, his forehead resting on the unforgiving metal of one rung.   
  
Dean used to love doing this. Took his time, nothing but  mouth fingers tongue , over and over, teasing him, preparing him, giving him a kind of pleasure he never even imagined. Not that Cas had ever imagined what sex would feel like. It's really little wonder humans invest so much in it, because there's nothing else in heaven or on earth that comes close.   
  
He grunts when Dean spits, nasty and sudden, and works the tip of one finger inside him, stroking him open, making room for the pointed end of his tongue, and oh yes, Cas's cock is filling now, arousal bright-hot in his blood. "Dean ..."   
  
His fingers tighten on Cas's hips in answer as he licks deeper, his thumbs holding Cas open now, and there's no arguing. Dean hasn't given him this much in ... Cas can't even remember how long, and it's so good, wet and messy and intimate, but it hurts, too. If he lets himself remember Dean doing this to him the first time, laying him out on some too-soft motel mattress, face-down in the sour sheets, the things he whispered as he leaned over Cas and mapped his body the way he mapped the country, veering deep into forgotten corners and taking back roads, appreciating abandoned places, undiscovered landscapes.   
  
Dean is a country Cas can only visit occasionally now, and once, he'd wanted nothing more than to live there.   
  
He flinches when Dean works a second finger inside, just the two tips now, and despite the spit, he's too dry for this. Dean knows it -- he removes his fingers and bites the soft bottom curve of one cheek, a startling flare of sensation. "Go. Lube's upstairs."   
  
Yeah. That's what it's like now. Cas shudders and drags himself up the ladder, stumbles when Dean slaps his ass. "Ain't got all night here, Cas."   
  
"You're such a dick, Dean." Cas goes straight for the bed set in the center of the spare, stuffy loft, sprawling on his back. The bite mark on his ass stings, and he rubs it against the cool sheet.   
  
"Well, that's what you want, isn't it?" Dean glances over his shoulder once he's seated on the edge of the bed, untying his boots and leaving them lined up neatly beside it. He's never barefoot anymore, rarely ever pads around in socks the way he used to. He's a soldier through and through these days, pure fight or flight. Cas is pretty sure he sleeps in his boots. He should probably consider himself lucky Dean deigns to remove them for sex. He stands up to push his jeans and briefs down, and Cas looks away.   
  
Naked, Dean's body is barely distinguishable from before his time in hell. The years have provided new scars, some deeper than others, none quite as bold as the hand print on his shoulder, still welted and raw-red, as it will always be. Cas has no idea if he's left marks on Dean anywhere else, in places only Dean would know. He doesn't care to ask anymore.   
  
Dean's not hard when he climbs onto the bed and crawls over Cas, but he rubs their groins together, cocks glancing off each other without much purpose yet. They don't kiss -- Cas can't remember the last time they did, although he knows if he thinks about it for a minute, he could. He used to love to kiss Dean, sometimes wanted nothing but that, but Dean tastes like copper now all the time, copper and the stale, sharp dregs of adrenaline, the smoke of whiskey.    
  
Dean reaches down to take himself in hand, pumping his cock quickly, but Cas knows how this is supposed to go. He pushes until Dean moves off to the side and goes up on his knees so Cas can crouch to take him in his mouth. He grunts appreciatively, twines the fingers of one hand through Cas's hair, hisses when Cas rubs his bearded cheek against the inside of one of Dean's thigh. Checkmarks on a list, practiced now, the way it never used to be.   
  
Cas's thighs burn as he leans deeper, takes Dean farther into his mouth, working his tongue against the pulse on the underside. He knows better than to think about the past. If he lets the sweaty heat of Dean's groin overwhelm him, mouth and nose, he'll stop remembering in a moment. He always does.   
  
It's a decent distraction, listening for Dean's husked out grunts, the twitch of his cock, fully hard now, the solid heat and weight of it on his tongue. It's a means to end, and that end is being full, split open, battered and pushed to the edge until he falls over it. And Dean knows it, too -- he jerks, too close to the edge himself, and pulls Cas off abruptly by his hair. The wet, obscene pop is too loud in the silence, but it doesn't matter. No one is listening. Not even Dean, Cas is sure.   
  
Dean does this as well and efficiently as he does everything now, pushing Cas down on his back and grabbing the lube off the bare table beside the bed. He slicks his fingers and gives them to Cas, one, two, three, steady and only as careful as he needs to be, before he slicks his cock, too. They don't use condoms anymore -- the supply is limited, and there's no chance Cas will get pregnant, so Dean uses them with women only. It's reckless and probably stupid, but Cas doesn't really care. His human body is so appalling fragile, he can't imagine he'll live long enough for any disease to kill him.   
  
There's no way to tell if Dean is feeling unexpectedly sentimental or if he's simply too lazy to ask Cas to turn over and get up on his hands and knees, and Cas doesn't really care about that either. He lets Dean fold him up like an army knife, wincing at the ache in his knees and thighs, because what he wants is so close now. So close, flushed with blood and gleaming with slick, working into him now, the broad, flared head nudging purposefully until Cas pushes back and his muscles suddenly give.   
  
And then he's full, finally, eyes closed as he lets himself feel the slow, delicious burn, the first terrible moment of too much, too big, the dizzying slide as he throws himself into it, taking it, letting it hurt and soothe all at once. Dean never gives him time to adjust anymore, just rocks forward, a nasty, grinding roll of his hips as he sets the rhythm, and Cas lets his arms fall to either side, clutches up fistfuls of the sheets and rides it out. Every thrust takes him closer to what he wants, and farther away at the same time, and he can't do anything but let it come. It's a growing, blooming thing inside him, insanely twisted vines spiraling up and in and around until they squeeze tight, tighter, and he lets himself groan it out as he comes, messy gouts of it all over his belly. Dean joins him a minute later, a strangled, choked sound deep in his chest, and then he's spilling, hot and wet inside Cas.   
  
And Cas lets it come still, the brief touch of Dean's slick forehead against his shoulder, the squelch as he pulls out, the sound of his ragged breathing as the mattress tilts with his movement. Cas keeps his eyes shut as he listens to sound of fabric rustling, the metallic chime of Dean's belt buckle, the dull noise of his boots moving as he puts them on again.   
  
His chest is still heaving when Dean pats his naked thigh once, just as briefly, before he crosses the room. The ladder groans a bit as he climbs down it.   
  
Cas pulls the twisted sheet out from under himself and lets it fall carelessly, savoring the last humming pulse of pleasure. He'll sleep now.       
  
He hopes he doesn't dream.


End file.
